


Homecoming

by AthenaatOlympus



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:49:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AthenaatOlympus/pseuds/AthenaatOlympus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is set after the Battle of Dale after Thranduil decides to leave after seeing the death of his elves. An elf escapes from the depths of hell in Dol Guldur and meets the Woodland elves. What happens to her and what is Thranduil's reaction?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is completely different from the movies. I do not own anything.

The Orc watched his prisoner carefully. Gagged and bound, she lay still. As far as he could remember, neither the lashes of the whip nor the singing of her flesh under the hot irons, had been able to mock a scream nor even a whimper from her. It was as if she were dead. Once or twice, his leader had gone to check, only to crawl away in search of his whip. Without that, he would not dare to stay in the same cell as her. A witch, he had said. She could use her magic to kill him. Not that she had ever done anything threatening. Like all elves before her, she had been desperate when she had arrived. Until that day. 

Sauron had decided that physical torture was not enough for her. Calling upon the Wildmen of Dunland, he had unleashed them upon her, one after another. First, she had fought them, then she had begged and finally, she had submitted. Whipped, burnt and branded, Sauron had decided that she had been destroyed when they had finally heard her scream. Even the Orc had felt a churn in his stomach at the heart-wrenching anguish in her scream. Between her legs, the blood had flowed without stop. It had been the ending of a life, the slaying of a soul. It had been her last scream. She must have been a more hardened master than even Sauron, for whilst he had heard of elves escaping from even the former, this prisoner let none of her screams ever escape from her that day hence. 

As years passed, her beautiful body, tall and willowed, had hunched. The skin upon her face, untouched by brands, knives or whips, paled. On the rest of her body, her skin looked like the floor of a treacherous pit, bumpy and scarred from deep, red welts. Her body bent, her spirit broken. And yet, she was not to be ignored. His Master was right, the Orc thought, elves were immortal. So too were their spirits. Broken they could be, but die, they would never. At least, not this elf’s. Only his hand hurt from whipping her. She remained as dead as ever, only her eyes alive forever. 

Year after year, Azog would bring her before the other Orcs and prisoners in Dol Guldur, where she would be stripped and made to kneel while he would shave off her hair. It had been a vile pleasure for him. He had laughed menacingly, even managed a cruel chuckle once in a while but the Orc knew better. His leader was scared and furious. For he had failed. Try as he had, even the depths of cruelty he had crawled to had not been enough to break this elf’s spirit. Unbowed, unbent, unyielding. She was all that and more.  
The sound of the horn broke the Orc’s thoughts. He sighed. They were going to fight once again. Tiredly, he picked up his weapons. If he had a Creator, he would have prayed, prayed for death. But, Orcs were too worthless to pray. Nor did they have anyone to pray to. Sauron would just throw them away once they were dead, there would be no Halls of Mandos for them, would there? As all the Orcs trudged their way down the slopes, the Orc stopped by the elf’s cell. 

He was shocked by what he saw. It was her, wasn’t it? She was looking around furtively as she hastened into a Wildman’s armour. On the ground, lay a Wildman, a dagger wedged through his skull. The chaos of the outside must have prevented his screams from being heard. The Orc saw the prisoner pale as she spotted him. Quickly, he closed the gates of the cell. Taking the whip, he brought it down upon the air. The prisoner was looking at him in surprise. Even he was surprised. Why was he doing this?   
Outside, he heard his leader. “Leave her alone now. We have greater spoils to seek. Come now, you fool.” The Orc stopped, and looked at the prisoner. She still looked surprised. Quickly, he grabbed her hand and led her outside, locking the cell doors. A brief look passed between them as they joined the other Orcs and Wildmen. One victim to another. There was no hope for him but perhaps, he could give some to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prisoner has managed to escape Dol Guldur. She sees the elves of Mirkwood with their King as Dale is overrun with Orcs. What does she do?

The prisoner was shocked. When she had seen her guard entering her cell, she had felt her hope drain away, her last chances of escape vaporising as mistily as they had come. She did not understand why he was helping her and dared not rejoice for it could be a trap. If it was, what would be dealt out to her? The stripping, branding, shaming..could Azog think of worse punishments? Yes. he could and he would. Defiantly, she pushed her thoughts away. It was a chance and she would take it. For the better or for the worse.

Joining in the war cries of the Orcs, she hobbled along with her guard, not daring to lose him, at least not until she set foot outside of this hell. The Orcs were all fired up now. They were chanting and cheering, calling for the doom of all who would not bow to their Dark Lord, Sauron. Here too, there were the leaders and the followers. And there were the ‘losers’, as she termed them. They hated Sauron with every cell of their being but did not have the strength to resist him. Denied life and death, tired and vanquished, joining Sauron was their only hope for a less torturous life. They would still be threatened, whipped, maybe knifed but they would be spared from the kind of torture that the rebels as herself had to endure. Her faithful followers had perished in their support of her. They had been killed, in the worst possible ways. Each had died taking the name of their King and their maker, thanking him for his mercy that he had not turned into an Orc. As one after another had gone, her tears had dried up. 

Her time in prison had not been for naught. Once Sauron had been content that she had been vanquished, his interests had wandered. Isolation was a strict companion, a wise teacher. She had reached into herself, drawing upon her strengths. Small as they had been then, she had honed them and strengthened them. One day, she would use it against him. She could be as evil as Sauron, as deadly as him. He needed a ring of power, she needed nothing for it was within her. 

The light failed to blind her even momentarily. She was satisfied. So long had she been deprived of it, she had expected to be shocked by it. But, her eyes adjusted without a blink. Her ears picked up the slightest sounds. The growling of hungry stomachs, the muttered curses of hopeless Orcs, the fluttering of wings of insects and birds as they flew in terror for refuge from the dark presence that had descended upon them. Grass, plants and trees were cowering in fear, trembling and whimpering in their silent world. It appeared that there was little hope around. She caught a butterfly fluttering near her, pretending to swat it. Their conversation was quick. She learnt that they were travelling down to Dale. The Orcs were attacking there. The Elven King had held back the aid of his soldiers until the last moment.

She did not know what to think. Unable to judge, she held it back. Foolish was he who was quick to point an accusing finger. They had been marching for nearly a day now, but she felt no thirst nor hunger. She was used to having no food, was good at stealing the remains of the Orcs’ meals. As they moved down and houses came into view, she tried to find her direction. Where were they now? She had to remain alert so that she could make out her location. The Orcs were becoming frenzied, some excited, leering in anticipation. The prisoner realised what it meant. They were going to attack, to destroy. 

As they walked through the mountains, her location dawned on her. They were in Dale. And had already attacked. Strewn around were the bodies of men, women, children and ..elves. The prisoner looked closer, her own elven eyesight, sharp as it ever was, seeking the colours of Elven soldiers. Wishes hardly came true and it was the case again. The Elven King had appeared to relent after all. and doomed his soldiers. A Mirkwood soldier lay dead, his eyes open, mouth agape. His throat had been slit, his face slashed. The Orcs and the Wildmen must have done it. It gave them pleasure to destroy the beauty of the elves. Just as theirs had been. 

All around, it appeared to be the case. The Orcs had set out to destroy and had destroyed. As she trudged through the bodies, hardly managing to contain her anguish, she heard the sound of a horn. Not the sickening wail of the Orc horn, no, this was the melodious call of the elven horn. At least, it sounded melodious to her ears. But, it was not calling them to fight. The prisoner realised that they were going to withdraw. She was not surprised. In fact, she had wondered how the Elven King had allowed his soldiers to remain this long in Dale, getting them killed. It was so unlike him. He for whom the safety of his elves and his kingdom overruled all else. The horn sent the elves hurrying to their commander, not chaotically like the Orcs. No, the elves moved with precision and objective. Their swords raised, they slew all that blocked their paths and moved to their meeting point. If one were to fall in the process, the rest moved on. But no injured elf was left behind, they were carried forth by the rest. 

As the Orcs jumped into the fight, the prisoner grabbed the chaos of the moment and stealthily moved away, seeking a safe place to hide. Soon, she found one, a tall tree with thick foliage that would shield her. About to get away, she was pushed down by an Orc that came stumbling down on her. It was her guard, an arrow had caught his throat. He would die slowly, painfully. The prisoner looked at him and her eyes clouded. He had once been an elf, was this his fault? She had no answers. She reached for the dagger that hung at his sides and raised her eyes to him. As they met, the Orc knew that she was seeking permission for what she was about to do. Closing his eyes, he waited. It was over in seconds, a neat slit across his throat, he struggled few seconds and lay limp, lifeless. The prisoner wondered if he would make it to Mandos? She would never know.   
Quickly, she removed all the weapons on the Orc, looting them for herself. As she looked around, she saw the elves coming down the path. She realised that they were going to their commander. Climbing the tree to avoid being seen, she craned her neck, seeking him out eagerly. There, he was. Behind his King, as always. And, she saw the King. Even in his armour, his grace and beauty had not abandoned him. His thick straight hair, hung long and golden. His body as fit and slender as ever, his face glowing in the light of the morning sun. His was an ethereal beauty. A presence that awed and commanded. Feared but respected. The Elven King of Mirkwood. 

As the prisoner observed the situation, she realised that there was some kind of problem between the elves. One of the elves was pointing an arrow at her King. The prisoner was shocked. What was happening? Quickly, she closed her eyes and drew in her breath. After all these years, she was not even sure if it would work but she had spent her years trying to sharpen her power, control the full force of it. Now, she would find out whether she had succeeded. 

“Power of the wind that blows  
Heat of the fire that glows  
Sprinkle of the Water that flows  
Grain of the Earth upon which all grows  
Stand with me as one against the foes

 

Sacred winds of the west.   
Hear out my behest.  
Bring to me the words   
upon the lips of those yonder.”

As if in answer, a light breeze fluttered by her, bringing her the knowledge she sought. As she realised what was happening, the prisoner was not angry. She was enraged.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prisoner sees the elves in a dangerous stand off with the Orcs. Can she and will she help them?

Since when did soldiers challenge their king on the battlefield? Especially, one overrun with Orcs. Why was the King not reacting to his soldier’s insubordination? Did they not realise the danger of the situation they were in? Either, they ought to leave or they ought to start fighting. Not stand there facing each other off. “He was getting old, the Elven King,” the prisoner thought irately to herself. 

Leaving the safety of the tree, she inched closer to the elven soldiers. Most were surrounding the King. She realised that they were poised to attack, all that prevented them was the signal of their Commander. He was still standing behind his King. She saw his fingers tremble upon his sword and realised that he was angry. 

Aradan Cyredtlitharion, Commander of the Elven Army of Mirkwood. He now stood behind his King. The prisoner noted that his earlier slight of his head had his small army of elves, the last of the elves to leave Dale, standing ready to attack. An elf of gentle look and fine features, his stealth, cunningness and prowess in war could be underestimated by strangers. But no elf, man or orc who had heard of him would have dared to brush him off. His presence made his allies grateful, his foes fearful. So why was he now not defending his King? And, why was the King not reacting to this madness? 

She did not have the opportunity to find out. So engrossed had she been with the elves, that she realised only seconds earlier that and orc was coming behind her. Quickly, she jumped up, growling along with him. She could feel her heart tremble at the near escape that she had had. Reprimanding herself to remain alert, she joined the orcs as they moved to surround the elves. Their scimitars and daggers were raised and they were smiling, that gut-wrenching smile that told her that they were ready to stoop to any extent to see the enemy suffer, probably as they had. 

She hovered behind the orcs, hiding once again behind the safety of some rocks. The elves, realising that they had been surrounded, had encircled the King. She had known that would happen. The Elven King would not die, at least until his Commander drew breath. The two soldiers, who had challenged their King, had been pushed into the circle by the Commander. It puzzled the prisoner. But, that was not her worry now. The elves were out numbered by the Orcs. How would they escape? 

As the Orcs drew their scimitars, the prisoner once again drew in her breath. It had just been a few days, since Azog had come to her cell. His whipping had been harder than usual and her body ached. Her thighs too were sore but she had to try. Summoning all the energy that was left in her, she called upon the winds once again. 

As the Orcs moved to bring their scimitars down, she thanked Eru that he had not abandoned her this once. The winds blew hard, bringing the grains of sands to the eyes of the Orcs. Disoriented and unable to see clearly, the Orcs lost their control. She saw the elves take the advantage and raise their swords. Pleased, she was sure that the elves would be safe and made to creep off when she heard a growl. Only two Orcs were standing but they had taken an elf prisoner. It was the elf that had raised his sword to the King. 

She watched as the Orcs mocked the Elven King to come to Dol Guldur to get his son’s body. Son? This foolish soldier, who dared raise his sword to his King, the Elven Prince? The prisoner’s heart sank at the knowledge. But she remained focused on the task at hand. It would be easy to fight two Orcs but they were holding the Prince hostage, their sword at his neck. “You would not dare harm him?” It was the elf who had raised her bow to the King. This time, the prisoner could not help herself. She rolled her eyes. This elf appeared as foolish in her words as she was in her actions. 

The prisoner had no energy left to call upon the elements. Desperate, she looked around. An elf lay dead, a few feet from her. Hating herself for what she was about to do, she crawled over to him. Closing his still open eyes, she removed his golden armour and stripped some cloth off his body and used it to mask her face. She bowed to him before moving off quickly, asking his pardon for having disrespected him in death. To steal from the dead, it appeared that she had learnt well from her captors. Quickly, she veiled her face with the cloth, before she once again inched towards the elves. The Elven King looked as if he was almost going to obey. 

“You, always so stupid and slow,” the knock on her head surprised her and threw her on the ground, weak as she was. She had nearly forgotten that she was still in the Wildman’s armour. The Orc, that had knocked her instructed her to take the King’s sword and circlet. “He doesn’t need anything for his already pretty face, does he? We will see how pretty he stays in Dol Guldur.” the Orc chuckled. “I feel kind today, Great Elven King. Will it be you or your son? The choice is yours.” 

The prisoner saw the anguish on the King’s face. The kingdom would fall with the King. The situation left him with little choice. Not daring to raise her eyes to him, the prisoner went to get his sword and circlet. As her fingers clasped the sword, she focused on the situation. The Commander was watching, what would he try to do in such a situation? His dagger would be poised to find the Orcs’ head at the first possible chance. But what chance had he? Thinking quickly, she reached for the King’s fingers and tugged at his rings. “What fine je..?” She did not have to finish. Her actions had disrupted the Orc’s attention from the soldiers and doomed him. As she had estimated, the Commander’s dagger had found him. As the second Orc tried to flee, the prisoner used the King’s sword that she held in her arms. Without turning around, she aimed at his neck, decapitating him neatly.   
She did not have to look up to realise that the danger was over. She heard the King and rush over and speak in anxious tones, “Legolas, are you hurt?” The prisoner did not hear the rest of the conversation. With her body already hurt, the magic she had summoned had sapped the remaining energy off her body. She fell to the ground in a dead faint.


	4. Chapter 4

When the prisoner came to, she realised that she was in a clearing. All around her were the elven soldiers of Mirkwood. Looking at her hands and legs, she was surprised to see that she had not been bound. She heard voices and perked her ears. “There is no need to bind her. She is very weak. I suspect she has been injured. We have taken her prisoner, we will question her. She is an elf.” 

“I do not agree, Commander. She was with the Orcs. She could very well be a spy. We ought to kill her,” this time the prisoner looked carefully and realised that it was the female soldier. The prince was agreeing with her. “At least, remove her veil.” It was the Prince’s demand. The prisoner sighed. Well, at least the elves would kill in one fell blow. The pain would be less.

“There is another matter that needs to be discussed, Commander. Are we leaving the dwarves to die? Will we not go to their aid?” It was the female soldier again. “This evil will spread and will come back to attack us. Are we such cowards?”

“That is enough from you, Tauriel,” the commander appeared to have reached the end of his patience. “Our King has his reasons and he will not be questioned. We know what we are doing.”

So, her name was Tauriel, the prisoner surmised. 

“Then, I am going. I will not disown the dwarves,” it was Tauriel again. She was already leaving. 

The Commander did not bother calling her. He turned to Legolas, who hesitated for a moment before moving to follow Tauriel. “Don’t you want to know what happened?” the Commander was talking to the air. The pair had already left. This time, the prisoner saw the frustration and the hurt in the Commander’s eyes. He had not been bothered by Tauriel’s actions but apparently, the prince’s rebellion hurt. 

As the prisoner watched the pair leaving, she sensed a third pair of eyes watching them or watching the Prince, precisely. The King Thranduil was watching in anguish as his Prince left. Seeing his King’s face, the Commander moved to call the Prince only to be stopped by his King. “We have a land to defend. We had best see to it.” The King’s words were soft and his eyes did not meet his Commander’s. 

The King turned around, looking at nothing in particular but the prisoner was quick to look down so as not to attract his attention. “She must be cold. Her clothes look thin. She looks like a skeleton herself. Whoever she is, we gain no pleasure in her suffering. Do you have a cloak for her?” 

The prisoner heard the Commander sigh as he answered his King, “I was bringing it to her when Prin …. Will we remove her veil?” The King appeared to give it thought. “We ought to but not now. Let us return to the safety of our land first. For now, I believe she is too weak to do any harm.” 

The Commander must have agreed for he changed the subject. “Have you eaten, my lord?” The prisoner kept still as she felt the Commander wrap the cloak over her.   
“I am not hungry, Aradan. Is she still unconscious?” 

“She has not stirred yet but I think not, my lord. She must have come to by now.” The prisoner heard the warning in the Commander’s words to her and to his King. They would be careful around her anyway, regardless of whether she was conscious or not. The Commander came near her and she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was conscious. Thankful for the cloak, she pulled it closer around her. The Commander handed her a bowl. This time, she was surprised though she ought not to have been. The Elven King had never been known to be cruel. The bowl contained warm soup and she was given a slice of bread to go with it. Just touching the bowl, the warmth of the food, seemed to add to her strength. 

Turning away from them, she eagerly ate the food. Long had it been since she had relished such a delicacy. 

The King and the Commander had moved away from her, leaving two guards near her. She ought to tell them that she could hear them but she was too tired now. They were wondering why she had helped them and how she had handled the King’s sword with ease, concluding that she must be a skilled warrior whoever she was. That bit was true, she thought mirthlessly to herself. But her skill had not been enough to protect her. Nay, the truth was she had not been that skilled before entering Dol Guldur. It was in the loneliness of that hell that she had honed her skills in the one hope that she would one day use it to destroy he who had destroyed her. Aye, she was vengeful and her thirst would only be satiated when Dol Guldur fell. 

As the prisoner finished her food, she drank the water that had been placed near her. Sighing in satisfaction, she turned her eyes towards the stars. Gazing upon them, she said a blessing for the kindness that had been bestowed on a mere stranger, a possible enemy. Tucking the cloak around her, she leaned her head against the smoothness of the rocks and closed her eyes. Near her, a butterfly hovered. It would inform her if any danger arose. 

It was not dawn when she stirred. Her head and body were throbbing in pain and she felt as if needles were piercing her womb and abdomen. She was used to such pain but how was she going to walk without showing her pain. Somehow she had to manage. Feeling wet, she looked down and saw the blood flow from her thighs. She ought to have known. The wildmen had been merciless and Azog had been particularly cruel. Her body had endured the pain whilst desperate to escape. Now, that she had let her guard down, her body too was demanding respite. 

She tried to stand up noiselessly, ignoring the excruciating spasms of pain that shot through her body. Trying to hold on to any last possible thread of self-respect that she could, she staggered towards the stream. Entering it, she quickly removed her bloodied tunic, keeping her veil in place and lay still against the rocks. The cold did not bother her and the gentle flow of water provided soothing ailment for her battered body. She saw the blood wash away, ignoring the stinging pain upon her skin. Awhile later, she stood up unwillingly. She could not afford to stay longer. It would dawn soon and besides, the soldiers could be looking for her. Quickly, she sought to dress and go back to the camp, when she realised that her clothes were no longer there. Instead, a clean tunic was laid out on the grass. 

Her heart stilled as she realised that she had been watched. She had let her guard down. Looking up, she saw the commander leaning against a rock, his back facing her. He had probably taken her clothes, not without reason. He would go through it and with every observation of her, he would roughly piece together her story. Soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elves of Mirkwood might be cold, less wise and less cautious but they had never been cruel. Their "prisoner" enjoys their kindness. When the elves are threatened, does she repay the favour or betray them?

Wearing the clean elven tunic made her feel alive. Why it was so smooth and soft against her skin, she could not help the feeling of warmth that rose in her chest as she enjoyed the luxury of clean clothes. Her wet veil as clinging to her face and it made it a little difficult for her to breathe but the winds would soon dry it. As she made her way back, she saw the Commander look at her with an inexplicable look. Was it amusement or embarrassment for a stranger? Had she forgotten to cover herself somewhere? Qucikly, the prisoner looked at herself. Nope, she was covered all over except for ….her hands, whatever part was not covered by the tunic, and …her hair. 

This time, tears rose in her eyes. Okay, so the commander had seen her hair and her hands. Azog had just shaved it recently and though her hair kept growing quickly, it hung just at her ears. The commander, being the commander, would have known what had happened to her. It explained the look on his face, neither amusement nor embarrassment. Far worse. It was pity. 

Keeping her eyes to the ground, she went back to her original spot. The cloak the commander had given her the previous night was still there. She tore a part of it from the bottom and made a simple scarf out of it, tying it around her head. Still not daring to look up, she sat against the rocks, just enjoying the feeling of being clean and breathing in fresh air. She was careful not to move for her body was still hurting terribly and any wrong turn of her body sent her into spasms of pain. 

She felt the commander look at her again and turned to him. He was signalling to the rock beside her and she turned and saw that food had been laid out for her again. Warm tea of chamomile and another small slice of bread. It did not make her feel better for she knew the source of his kindness lay in his pity for her. It was what she had been reduced to, an object of ridicule for the mean-spirited and that of charity for the kind-hearted. 

For a moment, she felt defiant and wondered if she should refuse the food. Reality then sunk in and she reached for the bread and the drink, more gratefully. She ought to thank the Valar for the life she was enjoying now, not be so petty about it. She ate her food in silence, listening to the butterfly as it updated her on news that it had received from its friends. There was a fierce battle near the Lonely Mountains. The Elven Prince and Tauriel were there as were the dwarves. The prisoner felt as if someone had dropped a stone in her stomach as she heard that Azog was there as well. 

Just then she heard the elven horn and saw the soldiers getting ready for battle. The news had reached them as well. As they moved off in precision, the commander came near her. He saw the hesitation in his eyes and realised that he was debating with himself, before coming to a decision. Using elven rope, he tied her hands and set her upon his horse. She betrayed no emotion. It would have been easier for the commander to just chain her to the rock and leave her there. Except, far as the elves were concerned, she would be unable to defend herself should there be danger. They could neither trust her nor abandon her. And so, off they rode to battle again, commander and prisoner. 

As they neared the battle, the commander left her near some rocks and moved off. Again, the prisoner had seen his struggle between his kindness and his distrust. He had made sure that she would not be discovered. And could at least escape, if she were to be in danger. But, he had not dared unbound her hands, lest she turned against them. It would have been easiest for him to do as Tauriel had said, kill her off. Oh, the kindness of the elves. It ought not to be their undoing. 

Settling herself behind the rocks, she summoned the butterfly again and asked him to bring forth some friends as well. She needed information from as many areas of the battle as possible. One by one, she heard the news. Elves were falling, the fighting was fierce, the dwarves were dead. And then, she heard that there was a stand-off. The elves against the orcs and Azog. Azog, he was there? The prisoner felt the shudder go through her. She did not want to see him. Ever again. She crawled further behind the rocks and stayed trembling until a butterfly came. He had taken the Prince hostage and was demanding the return of the prisoner. So, Azog had realised that she had escaped and wanted her back. Why? 

Foolish question. Azog enjoyed the pain he could inflict upon her. It gave him a sense of power. Oh, this seemed to be a replay of the situation that they had just escaped from a day ago. She could not believe that the Prince had led them to this. Surely the King would offer himself up for his son’s safety. Where was the brainless elleth? The butterfly replied her that she was mourning over a dwarf away from the rest. “Great, just great,” thought the prisoner. It was not that she was mocking the elleth’s pain or loss for she knew such pain too but this was really her own doing and her King and fellow elves were in trouble. Would she not aid them? 

She did not stall further and made her way quickly to where the elves and Azog were. As she stumbled there, Azog recognised her immediately, despite her veil and new tunic. He gave her a smile, one that sent chills down her gut. He had three elves in his hold, the Prince and two others. They must have been the Prince’s guards, dooming themselves with the Prince. The prisoner did not know what to do. It appeared that neither did the elves. All stood frozen before the Orcs. Azog looked at her and slowly drew his scimitar to the Prince. The prisoner looked at the commander and the King. Neither seemed to be able to make a decision. Both were too noble to hand her over to a captor like Azog but it was the Prince at stake. The prisoner trembled as she thought of the consequences. She had escaped hell, she would go back to one that would be worse. Azog did not take defeat easily. Nor Sauron. She had dared to escape from them.

“I will come,” she whispered, dropping to her knees in front of Azog. The Elven King and the Commander appeared surprised. They watched Azog carefully. He did not release the Prince, instead handing him over to the other Orcs. Going over to the prisoner, he looked at her, tracing his finger up her bound hands and down her legs. She kept still, refusing to writhe in the pain as blood flowed out. This time, the elves looked shocked looking to their Commander and their King for direction. Azog looked at the tiny dagger in his palms, stained with her blood and gave her another sadistic smile, as he turned away from her. She stared at him, dumbfounded for a minute and then realised what he was about to do. He was never one to stand by his word. He would not spare the prince. The prisoner stared as her blood fell unto the ground. She had barely any energy to draw on, but she had to try. 

Grains of Earth that bears us all  
Silent witness to the innocents that fall  
Upon my blood that flows  
Is it only evil that upon you grows? 

All heard the rumble and waited cautiously, even Azog. Without warning, the earth split open under him, as the rocks tumbled down crushing his Orcs in the way. Before Azog could react, the Prince himself had thrown his captor to the ground, jumping nimbly between the cracked lines upon the earth. The prisoner watched in silence as the elves battled Azog and the other Orcs. It was nearly over and all the orcs had died, when the prisoner screamed out the prince’s name, throwing herself in front of him. 

Before his own death, Azog had brought his scimitar down on the Prince’s arm. He would have brought it on his back as well, had the prisoner not tumbled over them, bearing the brunt of the weapon upon her thighs. The prince had hardly any time to react, stabbing his dagger down Azog’s head, ending at least one evil reign upon Middle Earth.


	6. Chapter 6

Unable to get up, she lay on the ground. Beside her, the Prince was hunched in pain. She was sitting up, her thighs trembling as blood flowed out uncontrollably. “I …I am so sorry,” her voice was soft and quivering. “I did not intend for you to get hurt, Prince Legolas,” she reached out to touch him when a hand pushed her away. She looked up to see Tauriel. The latter’s eyes were red from crying and despite the situation, the prisoner felt sorry for the young elleth.

Still, it also hurt to be pushed away and the prisoner kept to herself. “Are you alright, Legolas?” Tauriel’s voice was concerned but the prisoner could not help herself. No, he is not alright. His blood is flowing. He is an archer. It is best that his arm is tended to immediately. Of course, she did not say any of it aloud. She saw the King hurry towards the Prince. He stopped briefly before her and was about to reach out to her when he heard Legolas moan. Turning to his son quickly, he called to his son. “Legolas..”his voice was anxious and worried as he helped his son stand up and bring him back. Tauriel followed him obediently. 

The prisoner felt relieved. The King was unhurt and he would definitely see to the Prince. Her own skin was beginning to sting in pain and she saw the King stop and talk to a soldier before hurrying away. Alone, the prisoner tried to stand up supporting herself on her bound hands, only to sway backwards. Her fall was broken by strong arms that caught her. She did not have to turn to know who it was. The Commander was behind her after having given instructions to the other soldiers. 

Using his dagger, he cut her ropes and carried her to his horse. “Foolish elf,” he muttered, “who asked you to come here?” The prisoner did not reply. She had not intended to be a hindrance but would not Azog have killed the three elves, including the prince had he not seen her? There had been nothing to stop him. As if in answer to her thoughts, the commander continued, “We ought to thank you though. Had you not come, surely I would have lost at least one of my soldiers. Now, both the Prince and his two guards are safe, thanks to you.” As he turned to leave, a soldier hurried to him. Bowing, he said, “Commander, the King wants her to be brought to the infirmary and treated.” 

The Commander nodded and turned to her, a grim smile upon his face. “Our King is not one to forget favours. You have helped us …twice.” The prisoner held still as the Commander climbed the horse. “Able to call upon the elements, are you? For someone who looks so frail, you are powerful.” She remained silent as her rode to the camp. “Both times, the earth shook. The first time, the wind blew and blinded the Orcs. Both times, you were there.” 

She remained silent, knowing that the Commander did not expect an answer from her. She sat stiff and upright upon the horse as they rode. Finally, she opened her mouth, and surprised Aradan. Her voice was a silvery whisper, and was faintly familiar though he could not place it. “I..I might pass out soon.” Aradan did not reply. The prisoner was stating the obvious. He was surprised that she was holding up for this long and in truth, it would be better if she passed out for her pain would be less. “Will you give me your word that you will not try to remove my veil?” 

Aradan focused ahead as he rode on. After a pause, he replied, “My word is that of my lord’s. His decision will not be questioned.” The prisoner did not reply, merely looking down. “Until he orders it, none will disturb you. You will be treated without removing your veil. That is all I can give you now.” Aradan slid his arms around her waist as the horse made a quick jump. The prisoner said no more. 

It was a quick ride back to the camp but by the time, they reached, the blood had soaked her tunic and the prisoner had lost her resolve. She had passed out and was leaning against his chest. Despite the graveness of the situation, Aradan smiled to himself. He had been wondering how long she would be able to endure that position, all high and stately, injured and weak as she was. High and stately, Aradan mused over his own thoughts. Why did he think of her so? She kept to herself, was submissive and certainly did not expect anything. She had not tried to escape, ate what was given to her and merely kept to herself. Yet, it was not mere instinct that told the Commander that she was someone to be watched. 

When he reached the camp, he saw that the soldiers were on high alert. They were packing, getting ready to leave. He quickly carried the prisoner and brought her to the infirmary tent. Erudraithe, the healer, was there, busy with the Legolas. “Is he alright, my lord?” Aradan’s voice was as anxious as Thranduil’s had been when he had brought it in his injured son. “The wounds are deep, commander. But, we are lucky that it was just his arm and not elsewhere on his body. He will recover in time.”

Handing the prisoner over to two assistants, Aradan went over to his King. Thranduil’s face was grim and the Commander could see that he was struggling to keep his composure. “He will be alright, my lord,” he whispered softly. Thranduil did not look up. “What will I tell his mother if she were to question me? I have failed your Queen, Aradan.” Erudraithe, the healer, looked up at those words. Sensing that his King needed time alone, he excused himself to look at the prisoner. Aradan sat by his King. The Prince’s arm was badly injured. For an archer, a warrior, it was a fearful situation. He could hardly hold back his own tears, and had no words to console his King. 

When Legolas had been bandaged and had drifted off to a painful sleep, Erudraithe began to really focus on the prisoner. In truth, she needed more help. The moment, the healer had looked at her, he could see how weak she was. “Commander,” the healer’s voice was soft as he sought permission, “can we remove the veil?” Aradan looked at his King. “She asked for my word that I would not remove the veil.” Thranduil looked up at Aradan. He knew what his Commander’s answer would have been. He saw no reason to press for anything now. “We will respect her wishes,” he said “for now” as he turned back to his son. 

Nodding, the healer turned back to the prisoner. Thranduil was looking far away, his hands upon Legolas’ open shoulders. Aradan looked away helpless as he knew that nothing would comfort his King. “I will see to the other soldiers, my lord, and the burials,” for they were unfortunate to have lost some elves. “Aradan..,” Before the King could say anything, the Commander bowed, “I am yours to command, my lord.”

As he was about to leave the tent, one of the healers exclaimed loudly, turning away. Aradan stopped and turned questioningly as did Thranduil. Erudraithe looked at them both, “My lord,” he said to Thranduil, “you had best see this.”

Aradan had seen many victims before but not one as tortured as the prisoner. He winced as he saw her. She must have been flagellated over a long period of time. Hot brands had been applied to her flesh and … Aradan’s eyes roved to her thighs, which was bleeding from the scimitar attack. She had been raped, repeatedly. His hands covering his mouth, Aradan turned away. Thranduil, on the other hand, was staring at the prisoner. He appeared to be in shock. Aradan looked at his King. “My lord, what..” he did not continue as Thranduil hurried out of the tent. 

“I glimpsed the scars, my lord, but did not realise its full extent….her hair..” Thranduil looked up expectantly as Aradan paused. “Her head has been shaved, I suspect regularly. I saw her hair as she went to wash at the stream.” Thranduil did not reply. He was looking ahead. Concerned, Aradan touched him gently, “My lord, are you alright?” Thranduil’s voice was breaking as he looked at his Commander. “Aradan, they would not have done the same to Erienne, would they?”


	7. Chapter 7

Aradan knelt before his king as the latter bowed silently. It was better that Thranduil let some of his grief out. Thoughts of Erienne, his Queen, still brought sharp pangs of pain to his chest and he knew that it would be much worse for Thranduil, so deeply had he loved his mate. A skilled healer and an accurate marksman, her shrewd assessment of any situation and advice had been invaluable to them, given her sharp political acumen and unfailing assessment of individuals. It was not just Thranduil who had lost a loving mate, the Woodland Realm had lost an able Queen as well. 

Yet, Aradan could nothing with which to comfort his King and dearest friend. Helpless, he remained beside Thranduil as the latter composed himself. “We have much to see to, Aradan. Sauron’s army is ruthless. This threat has not ended; it is merely lying in wait.” Standing up, Thranduil cast his eyes in the distance as Aradan waited patiently. “Sometimes, I wonder if it is time for me to sail. And can I dare hope that Erienne would one day join me there?” Aradan bit his lips as he heard his King’s, his friend’s wistful longing and gnawing pain. 

They heard a soldier waiting nearby, awaiting their attention and turned. Thranduil looked at his camp buzzing with activity. Soldiers were packing up, gathering wood and food. Despite the situation they were in, they did not appear tired or forlorn. Thranduil met his Commander’s eyes and both knew what the other was thinking. It was not the time for despair or longing. They had a land to protect, elves who trusted them to lead and show the way. 

Aradan signalled to the soldier who had apparently come to deliver a message. “My lord,” he said, bowing, “the prince is feverish. Healer Erudraithe has requested that you come as soon as it is convenient for you.” Both elves rushed back to the tent where Erudraithe was wiping the Prince’s forehead with a wet towel. “It is not totally bad, my lord,” the healer said, “the fever could release the heat but we have to take care that the wound is clean.” 

Thranduil turned to Aradan and the latter left the tent quickly. He did not have to be told. He would see to the packing and safety of the camp as well as the soldiers whilst the King stayed by his son. 

Night had fallen when Aradan returned to see his King still sitting by his elfling’s side. Beside him, Tauriel had drifted off to sleep. Just looking at Thranduil told Aradan that Legolas had yet to regain consciousness. He moved over to the prisoner, though she was hardly that now. Legolas was still drawing breath, thanks to her. “Her condition is worse than the Prince’s, Commander. We might not save her.” For some reason, that news brought a terrible weight in Aradan’s heart. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he moved over to Thranduil. It was no point asking his King to eat. He sat down beside them, doing the only thing he could, pray.

Two days passed without any news to gladden their hearts, save for the fact that nothing had worsened. Thranduil had been without food and drink and it took much coaxing from Aradan before he eventually agreed to go out to wash up and have a drink. Aradan sat beside his Prince, gently wiping his forehead. He was nearly his elfling as much as he was Thranduil’s. They had brought him up from young, motherless as he had been. Much as he had been angry with the child, he prayed with all his heart that Legolas would recover. Erienne was gone, the Woodlands did not have the strength to take another loss. Would not their Iluvatar realise that? 

As Aradan looked at the wet cloth, he saw that it was dirty and went outside to find Erudraithe for new supplies. When he returned, he halted at the entrance of the tent. Their mysterious captive, was awake and had struggled up. Aradan was about to go to her, when her actions stayed him. She had staggered out of her bed and had gone over to Legolas. Aradan was surprised that she had regained consciousness. Obviously, she was strong, in body as in spirit. She had had to be for her to have survived what she had gone through. Though, he did not believe that she would harm Legolas, Aradan stood cautiously, ready to strike if needed. Intertwining her palms over his, her forehead bent over his, she was muttering something. Then, she reached for the water beside him. Aradan saw her look through some of Erudraithe’s herbs and mix them in the drink. Slowly, she raised Legolas’ head and fed the drink to him. 

Aradan did not know why but he did not stop the elf. She could be poisoning the prince but it was senseless, for without her intervention, Legolas would have died on the battlefield. As soon as she had fed Legolas, she stumbled back to her bed, unaware of Aradan’s scrutiny. He saw her curl herself up and lie down and sensed that her latest actions had caused her much pain. He saw her start as he entered the tent and felt her eyes on him as he went over to Legolas. The prince appeared slightly better for some colour seemed to have returned to his cheeks. It was not unnatural for Aradan to wonder if his mysterious captive was responsible for this improvement. When Thranduil returned, Aradan left to return to his other duties. 

When he returned much later, he was met with the joyous news that Legolas’ fever had broken. He was still weak but he had regained consciousness and the danger had passed. Thranduil’s relieved face was apparent as he greeted his commander. “He is better, Aradan,” Thranduil’s relief was apparent in his voice and his teary eyes. He watched as his King stroked his son’s hair. “Legolas, ionin, can you hear me?” Legolas stirred a bit and mumbled something. Thranduil listened and though his face fell, he turned to Aradan, “Where is Tauriel? He is asking for her.” Aradan pressed his lips. “She has gone to see to the dwarves’ burials. She asked for permission. I could not deny her.” 

Thranduil shook his head. “’Tis not your fault. Could you get someone to get her?” Aradan turned towards a soldier, who was quick to bow and exit the tent. 

He turned his attention back to Legolas who was now clenching his fingers tightly. “Would he be in pain, Erudraithe? Is there anything we can give him?” Erudraithe hesitated and looked at the herbs. Someone had mixed some herbs together and given them to him but he did not know who and confessed so to his King. Aradan looked up from the prisoner’s side of the bed. “It was her, Thranduil. I saw her feeding something to him. I did not stop her for she had already saved him twice and she appears to be learned and powerful. It was a chance I took. Pardon me if I have wronged, my lord.” 

Thranduil looked at his commander. So the prisoner had won his commander’s trust, partially at least. It was not something easily gained and Thranduil respected his commander’s instincts and perceptions. “Is she better? We could ask her,” he asked instead. Erudraithe looked up, now apparently confused. “She is very ill, my lord. Taken by fever,” nervously, Erudraithe continued, “my lord, by what the Commander has said, she has taken his fever away but in doing so, she has been further weakened herself. It must have been the herbs as well as knowledge of spells. She must be a learned and skilful elf, my lord. And powerful too, if she was able to take his pain unto her in her weakened state and ….still live.” 

Nervously, the healer waited as he saw his King draw in his breath deeply. “See to her then. I am personally in her debt.” Standing, he left his son’s side and went over to the prisoner. She was pale and shivering with fever. Thranduil looked at her, remembering her mutilated and tortured body. His intake of breath was heavy as he reached out to take her hands in his, “Whoever you are, I am forever in your debt. As long as I draw breath, I will let none harm you.”


End file.
